


taking steps in my direction

by gealbhan



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, F/F, First Kiss, Getting Together, Synesthesia, beau is a mess, what's a canon timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 19:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14858963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gealbhan/pseuds/gealbhan
Summary: “Your voice,” says Yasha, and Beau pauses mid-sentence. “It’s blue.”





	taking steps in my direction

**Author's Note:**

> title from "crystalised" by the xx
> 
> idk what this is tbh!! it's barely edited and mostly experimental, written in? pretty much one sitting. i just wanted to throw it out there, i might edit sometime tomorrow but i'm working on a widomauk-centric multi-chapter fic so maybe not
> 
> sidenote: i have color-sound association synesthesia but i don't actually see the colors, so yasha's description here is taken both from my experience and what other synesthetes have told me. the colors themselves are mostly made up (ie, marisha's voice--even as beau--is kind of a burnt gold for me)

“Your voice,” says Yasha, and Beau pauses mid-sentence. “It’s blue.”

“Sorry?” Beau has been told a lot of things about her voice—deep, rough, kinda douchey. Never blue, though. She hadn’t known that was a descriptor that could apply to a sound.

“Oh, I—” Yasha flushes, gaze dropping to the tabletop between them. “I have this—” she licks her lips “—thing? When I hear certain sounds—or words—I can either see or feel colors with them. This is more of a feeling.”

Beau doesn’t really get it, but she’ll go along with it. “Okay. So I’m blue?”

“Your voice is.” Yasha tips forward on her elbows, arms crossed on the table. Around them, the pub is quiet, which Beau thinks is something of a miracle in this godforsaken town. Then again, it’s nearing midnight. “Your _name_ is more reddish, though. I think.”

“Huh,” says Beau. She glances between the table, where several crude words in a variety of languages are carved, and Yasha’s face, which is a stone mask, but like, a soft one. “That’s… interesting?” Shit. She cringes and tips back her drink, trying to get at the thin amount of liquid collected at the bottom. Maybe she should listen to Fjord more.

Yasha laughs, a reedy little sound. “It is. I’ve never known anyone with the exact same thing.”

“No, yeah.” Beau perches her chin on her laced fingers. She can’t read Yasha’s face in this lighting—not that she could in any other lighting, really—but the conversation seems to be open enough. “Any other sounds?”

“Oh, yes,” says Yasha, noticeably perking up; her head lifts and her shoulders straighten out. They’re very broad. Beau takes another feeble drink to keep from salivating. “Running water is a pale blue. Like—” Her face scrunches, and she tugs at the light tips of her hair. “Like this, but more blue.”

Beau nods.

“And Molly, his voice is—teal, closer to green. Like a peacock’s feather.” Yasha smiles, almost amused. Beau rolls her eyes at this description—Molly practically _was_ a peacock, so it made sense. “It has that same iridescent shine, too.”

“Of course,” mutters Beau.

“There’s—hm,” says Yasha, scratching at the inside of her elbow. “I am—not good about being put on the spot, you’ll have to give me a moment.”

“As much time as you need.” Beau thinks that’s the closest she’s gotten to actual flirting, besides the outright statement _You’re hot_. It gets the point across—she’s filled with a deep loathing for courtship rituals and the like. Looking at Yasha and the shy smile on her face, though, she thinks she could make an exception.

Yasha toys with her hair, come partially undone by now. “I appreciate that. I also haven’t really talked about this before.”

“Not even with, like, Molly?”

“Him, yes,” she says, “but not anyone else.”

Oh. Beau inhales through her nose. She reaches across the table and pats Yasha’s wrist—it’s a bit of a strain, but she can handle it. “Well, uh, thanks?”

“I should be saying that to you.” Yasha’s smile widens (barely), and Beau’s face heats up. She’s got a good enough alcohol tolerance that she knows that’s not why, but she’ll pretend like it is anyway. “Social niceties are not, ah, my strong suit though, so I won’t repeat it.”

Beau nods sagely. “Lots in common.”

Yasha’s gentle smile turns into a dagger of a smirk. “I am aware.”

“Hey, fuck off—” Beau throws a ball bearing at her arm. It bounces harmlessly off, with a little _clink!_ Yasha’s smile only grows. Eager to change the subject, Beau clears her throat and asks, “You think of anything else?”

“Hm.” Yasha presses her finger to her chin and frowns. “Nott’s voice is a yellowish green. Very bright.”

“Yeah, that tracks.”

“And thunder is a deep gray-blue,” says Yasha, shoulders tucking into herself. Beau hears her chair shift and wouldn’t be surprised if Yasha’s knees were bent up against the table. “The louder it is, the darker it feels.”

“That’s a feeling one?”

“Yes.”

“Why are some just feelings?”

Yasha’s frown deepens. “I don’t know. It is… difficult to tell, sometimes, because if I am thinking of a color, of course I’ll picture it.”

“Huh,” says Beau, leaning back in her chair. “Is my voice a feeling one?”

“No.” Yasha shifts, posture scooching forward, and Beau hears the chair squeak again. “I can—it is one of the clearest ones. A strong cobalt.”

“Could be ‘cause of this,” says Beau, gesturing to the various instances of cobalt in her outfit, and Yasha smiles.

“Could be,” she echoes.

Beau runs out of questions and Yasha apparently doesn’t want to share more, because they spend a few minutes in an amicable sort of silence. It’s not the kind that grates on Beau’s arms and makes her want to pick a fight or flip a table or just make an offhand remark to disrupt it. Instead, it’s the kind that makes her feel… safe.

She hasn’t felt that in a while. She sneaks glances at Yasha, who’s back to studying the table and its grooves. Her eyes flicker over Yasha’s lips, lower still lined with paint. An idea rustles in the back of her mind—it’s impulsive and stupid, but that’s just the Beauregard Way™.

Beau takes a deep breath and gathers all the boldness in her body. She leans forward. “Do physical feelings have colors, too?”

Yasha tilts her head up. It sets a few loose strands of hair askew, and Beau restrains herself from smoothing them back. _Not yet._ “Not that I have known so far.”

“Well, why don’t we find out?” And, on that note, while a question crosses Yasha’s face, Beau sets her drink aside and clambers up onto the table. It creaks under her weight but doesn’t buckle. She hesitates, seeing if anyone is going to stop her. No one does—the bartender must be asleep, and the other patrons are all too involved in their own business. Triumphant, Beau slides across and falls neatly into Yasha’s lap. “Hi.”

“Hello.” Yasha’s eyes are wide and beautiful. “You could have walked around, you know.”

Beau makes a _pssh_ sound. “That’s for losers. Anyway, I don’t think I could’ve waited that long to do—this.”

She reaches up, hands framing Yasha’s face—bronze skin a sharp contrast to Yasha’s porcelain. Yasha’s gaze flickers down and then flutters closed. Heart stammering, she leans closer. Her nose bumps against Yasha’s, and it’s awkward trying to line their lips up at first—she’s only kissed a couple girls before, and a while ago—but when Beau’s mouth meets Yasha’s, it’s good.

It’s _really_ good. Yasha is an excellent kisser and Beau should have known but it still surprises her. A large hand comes up to her upper arm, steadying her atop Yasha. Beau drapes her arms around Yasha’s neck, knuckles grazing the back of the chair behind her. As Yasha leans up into her, deepening the kiss, there’s a cracking noise.

The table might not have broken under Beau, but her and Yasha’s combined weights on the chair send it crunching to the ground, collapsing in on itself. The clamor sends the bartender running.

Next Beau knows, she and Yasha are sitting on the concrete outside, laughing their asses off. Beau clutches her stomach and Yasha covers her mouth and Beau is pretty sure they’re going to wake someone up, but she’s too happy to care.

Happy. That hits her like—no comparison pops immediately into her head, so she struggles for it—like a good whack on the back of the head.

When she can breathe without her ribs hurting, she opens her teary eyes to see Yasha extending a pale hand. She accepts it graciously. And also she’s _really_ fucking into the way Yasha can haul her up with only one arm, holy shit.

She clings to Yasha’s arm—maybe feeling her bicep up a little—peering into her now warm eyes, and says, “You didn’t answer my question.”

Yasha blinks. “Oh—well, no colors,” she says, laughing softly, “but there was a taste. Though that’s unrelated, I’m pretty sure.”

“Hmm.” Beau licks her lips. “Was it shitty beer and bread?”

“That would be it exactly, I’m sure.”

Beau laughs and links her arm through Yasha’s as they stroll off back toward their inn. She doesn’t know where the rest of their party members fucked off to, know that she thinks about it, but she doesn’t care, if she’s being honest. She glances up at Yasha, whose smile is the softest Beau’s seen all night—screw that, the softest since they met.

They should talk, she’s pretty sure. For right now, though, she’s content to take in the fresh air and still feel Yasha’s lips on hers.

Beau can’t help but smile, too.

**Author's Note:**

> i seem to write a lot about women kissing in bars huh. also if you caught the butterfly soup ref i love you
> 
> i'm on [twitter](http://twitter.com/birdmarrow) \+ [tumblr](http://dndbutch.tumblr.com)! (feel free to send writing (& drawing) prompts to the latter btw)


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